


It Only Makes Sense

by Esteliel



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has been injured; Nightingale comes to check on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Only Makes Sense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/gifts).



The TV is still running when he comes in to check on Peter. Peter is asleep on the couch; Nightingale moves closer and draws the blanket up. His hand comes to rest on Peter's shoulder for a moment, and at his touch, Peter moves a little, and then groans in pain and blinks up at him from blurry eyes.

Nightingale feels a little guilty. He hasn't meant to wake Peter; he only wanted to make sure that he is well and has everything he needs, although he can see that Molly has been by. An ornate tray on a small table by the couch holds everything that Peter might need: there's a glass of water, a half-emptied cup of tea, a bowl of soup that looks untouched, pain killers large enough to knock out a horse, even an untouched bunch of grapes.

Nightingale allows his hand to linger on Peter's shoulder; after all, now that Peter is awake, there is no reason not to, he tells himself, and tries not to think of the way both relief and worry flood his heart when Peter tilts his head and looks up at him from tired eyes.

“I'm sorry I woke you,” Nightingale says softly. Of course, he isn't truly sorry, because the relief to see that Peter is mostly all right is too great. 

He sped back as soon as he heard that there had been an accident. It wasn't even a magical accident, so there is no reason why he should feel like this. None of this is his fault, Nightingale tells himself, and yet he cannot think of a name for this feeling. What is this, if it isn't guilt?

Peter is an adult, and more than a capable cop. The crime hadn't involved any magic. A drunk suspect panicked all of a sudden and pushed him down a stair, so that Peter ended up with lots of bruising and a cracked rib, from what they told him on the telephone. Nightingale knows that this is no worse than what any other cop has to expect when dealing with the drunks and the tourists in the city.

But Peter is his apprentice, and he has sworn to protect him, and Nightingale, who has always been wary of such responsibility, can feel the force of it tug at his heart even now.

Maybe in response to what worry might be visible in his eyes, Peter gives him a dazed little smile, and before he can deny himself the comfort, Nightingale's hand brushes Peter's cheek. Peter's skin is warm, and he allows himself to linger as he studies his face, taking in the bruises and the small cut at Peter's brow. 

Nightingale's fingers twitch; he aches suddenly with the need to dab salve onto the bruises, or to cover the cut with a plaster – but Peter has been to the hospital and has been released home, he tells himself. What Peter needs is rest, instead of his senior officer hovering over him.

He tells himself he is going to leave. He tells himself that he will check on him again in an hour.

What he finds himself doing instead is awkwardly sitting down on the corner of the couch. He tries not to disturb Peter too much, but Peter makes a sleepy sound that could be either cough or laughter, and then turns with a little grunt of pain, wrapping his arm around Nightingale's legs.

Nightingale holds himself perfectly still. Once more he tells himself that he should leave – but he will disturb Peter should he get up, and Peter needs his rest.

After a moment, Peter makes another sound of mixed pain and annoyance, and his eyes blink tiredly up at him as he tugs on one of the many pillows with a hand that seems too weak now for the task. Gently, Nightingale helps him settle down again. In the end, somehow Peter ends up with his head on his lap, and then Peter sighs deeply and closes his eyes again.

His head is heavy, but he is also warm. Nightingale doesn't allow himself to think, but carefully files away the sensations: the way Peter's chest falls and rises slowly; the way the skin of his nape is slightly damp with perspiration when the pad of his thumb brushes against it by accident; the way the tendons stand out a little, betraying the remaining tension as Peter's hurt body tries to spare the injured rib.

There is a strange tension within Nightingale as well now. He feels as though he is waiting for something, but he is not quite certain what it is. Peter is asleep, knocked out by the painkillers once more, and Nightingale allows his hand to remain there on his shoulders, assuring himself that Peter is safe and not currently in pain.

Nightingale's eyes search the room for distraction from this restlessness within him. At last he finds the TV still running, and he has learned enough by now to recognize that children racing each other on flying broomsticks means that Peter has been watching Harry Potter to fall asleep to.

His lips curve into a small smile as he looks down at him. Well, it is about time that he grows acquainted with how Peter's generation formed their ideas of magic, he decides, and pulls the remote closer. And this way, he'll be able to wake Peter in time to take another painkiller. It only makes sense.


End file.
